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of external nature. The first duty, therefore, of art is to be true to Nature's ends, and not to detain man's soul in a reverie of idle delight, but to speed it onward to the one far off divine event to which the whole creation moves. The surface of the soil may be divided into personal possessions; men or nations may call the lands after their own names; the mountain, the ocean, the cloud, the desert isle, the very planet, may have some imaginary shackle of ownership flung upon it: with these appropriations and limitations art has nothing to do. It must deal with nature in those influences which are the inalienable heritage of mankind. Earth in her wholeness, the heavens in their unfathomable depth, and the sublimities of genius were made common property for all. When God formed man in His image He committed the development of the likeness to impressions daily growing from the divine frame of the universe. He placed him amidst scenes of bold and historic magnificence that he might imbibe their colours and magnitude. The end of art is to help nature in imprinting the likeness of God on the soul of man.

In the Palace of Art we see a being who has trained himself to catch all that is beautiful or touching in nature and history, and employ it for his own solitary gratification. He has sifted the bow from the shower, the grateful terror from the danger and the pain, the kindling emotion from the agony and despair, the sublime from its toil, the heroic from its sacrifice. The cries of earth are mellowed to music before they reach his ears, and the writhings and contortions of its combats are idealised into attitudes of grace. Nature's convulsed career amuses him with a phantasmagoric show, while he dwells beyond the reach of her attractions.

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And "while the world runs round and round," I said,

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The design of the architect of this psychic palace was to enlarge his capacity of enjoyment, to garner for himself the whole harvest of beauty, and to eat, drink, and be merry on goods laid up for

many years.

It is not the account of an artist whose personal life is untouched by his art. There have been painters and poets who worked with sunbeams while their lives were of the darkness. There have been philosophers and logicians who constructed deathless systems while their steps trod ceaselessly in the labyrinth of error. There have been orators who transmitted truth to posterity in sentences of flame, but on whose pledged promises their co-temporaries could place no reliance. There have been moralists whose maxims were like glittering insects engendered in impurity. There have been preachers whose accurate balancing of dogma protected the perfection of their worldliness, whose spiritual unction could only supply fuel for a fiercer fire of remorse than natural depravity can kindle. But all these did a finished work, and left contributions to a future which they neither foresaw nor desired.

The case here presented is different. It is that of a favoured and richly-endowed being, calm, self-possessed, refined, who, with discernment to choose and power to execute, out of nature's strength gathered sweetness for himself, and luxuriously fed his soul on the visions which dying men saw through their tears. It is as if the vapours, rejoicing in their elevation, should never descend to fertilise the plain out of whose arteries they had arisen ; as if Liberty, the child of agonies wide as the world, deep as the heart, should gain her apotheosis to shine like a star in settled splendour over a despot's throne; as if Truth, transformed from her ancient servitude and bursting from medieval disfiguration, should soar to the higher regions of heaven to company with angels, and never bless with her loveliness the race from whose travails she had sprung.

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnished brass,

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Four courts I made, East, West and South and North.

Let us contrast for a moment with this unscaleable, impregnable,

entranceless fortress of unsocial refinement and uncommunicated joy, the divine idea that warmed the hearts of men of a former time, whose inspired labours have all but shared the fate of ordinary struggles for the good of mankind, and been diverted from ministering to the elevation of the multitude to giving a zest to the pleasures of the chosen few. "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth . . . and I saw the holy city coming down from God out of heaven. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold the tabernacle of God is with men . . . and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes . And there came carried me away


unto me one of the seven angels . . . and he in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me that great city descending out of heaven from God . . . and it had a wall great and high and had twelve gates . . on the east three gates; on the north three gates; on the south three gates; and on the west three gates . . . and the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day for there shall be no night there."

The internal construction of the Palace--which throughout the Poem is now the symbol, now the actual creation of a frame of mind, a material erection and a mental disposition acting and reacting on each other-reproduces in an artificial form the grand features of natural scenery. Four floods of fountain foam pour from the golden gorge of dragons. Cloisters, branched like lofty woods, echo to the waterfalls. A gilded gallery shows the distant ocean. The ancients, who believed that superhuman beings dwelt in the fountain and the tree, held in their own way the certain truth that the Godhead speaks to man's soul from the augustness and the tenderness of nature. In the artistic rendering and the æsthetic perception, the beautiful imagination of indwelling deity is imperilled. The God of heaven will not deign to dwell in temples made with hands, nor will the God of nature unconditionally suffer His glories to be enclosed within human adaptations.

Quanto præstantius esset

Numen aquæ viridi si margine clauderet undas

Herba, nec ingenuum violorunt marmora tophum.

Juv. Sat:

But it is not in the temple or the palace of material architecture that God refuses to make His abode, but in the soul of the worshipper that is walled in by symbols, that loads itself with God's

gifts, clothes itself in His beauty, arms itself with His power, and sullenly refuses to be governed by His all-embracing love.

The latent and unloving spirit of exclusiveness reveals its tendency as we proceed to the exterior aspect of the building. The four currents mingle in one stream, and as they rush over the mountain's side form a rainbow. And on each pinnacle of the palace, instead of chimneys, statues standing on tiptoe tossed up clouds of incense from golden cups.

So that she thought, and who shall gaze upon

My Palace with unblinded eyes

While that great bow shall waver in the sun
And that sweet incense rise?

The delicate disguises and graceful dissemblances of art, if confined to a class, engender a fictitious sense of superiority. Every device that distinguishes the common wants of men, their common dependence on the bounty of nature, raises barriers more insuperable than any legal privilege could create. The very fabric of the mind becomes imbued with a different colour. In concealing the homeliness of our wants, we dissever our brotherhood. Because we drape our daily needs in elegance, we suppose that they are not the same as the urgent necessities of the uncultured man. A coronet and ermine cannot, we imagine, be intended to shelter their wearer from the cold in which ordinary humanity shivers. The dainty appetite that fares sumptuously off golden dishes cannot be of the same quality as the hunger which is solaced by a crust eaten from the hand. The disease that is mysteriously withheld from the vulgar ear and announced in formal bulletins cannot be that which brings trembling into the toiler's home. The demise that ceremoniously visits the palace, and with respectful pomp conducts its charge to a palatial mausoleum, cannot be the same death that invades the cottage and leaves its surviving inmates broken-hearted. This delusion grows until it becomes the instrument of repulsion and the justification of contempt. Men no longer warm themselves at the same fire, nor drink from the same stream. Ingenious fancy transfigures the familiar into the rare by her touch, into the coarse and forbidding by the contrast of her absence. The mind catches the temper of its haughty surroundings, and deems that it has the right to dazzle, because it has the power to enlighten.

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The interior of the Palace illustrates the objects which the inmate reserves for her own contemplation. The range of corridors, "overvaulting grateful gloom," that connects the several apartments may mean the habitual circumspection which guards the judgment from being dissipated by the glare of unshadowed day. The fine touch, the nice discrimination superstitiously avoids too much contact with average estimates. Various moods of mind are represented by ideal landscapes. One, a morning scene, full of animal vigour, in which the clear air is resonant with the blast of the hunter's horn, buoys the imagination with the turbulent gladness of youth. From this we suddenly pass to another, in which, on a sandy tract by the glimmering light of a low large moon, some one paces for ever. We never see a mourner without asking, "Why does he weep?" Here the poet has accumulated all the vague images that intensify the essential mystery of sorrow. Then we behold the sea writhing in convulsive struggle with a threatening cliff; and, as we enter into the spirit of the contest, the scene changes, and an endless plain, a quiet river, peaceful herds, and a remote prospect, just relieved from sameness by a ragged thundercloud, dissolves the soul into the mingled prescience of its distant hope. A busy harvest scene, balanced by windy uplands, tells of autumnal plenty, and brings earth and her children into grateful relations; and immediately after a foreground of barren slag and cinder leads the eye backward to haughty crags that rise above the clouds, and volcanic fires reddening above the region of snow. From those occasional moods the soul fitly returns to its settled state, represented by an English home where tragic mystery is unknown, the struggle of life unfelt, the distant hope brought near, orderly, undisturbed, treeembowered, and softened by the tender joy of evening.

All those mental conditions are or may be merely reflective. The sentiment or affection that they arouse is transfused or idly subsides. Strife and peace, joy and sorrow, hope and possession, are fields where the vagrant fancy amuses itself with variety. The lights and shadows of nature and the vicissitudes of man's lot are most fertile in their extreme degrees to the searcher for indolent pleasure. The external world will echo back to us in the mood in which we question it. If we ask for repetition of a sound, it will reverberate a sound. If we ask for wisdom, it will re-echo

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